The train of time forever carries sins and blunders. Its engine bellows like a coal-powered monster, its huffing and puffing never reaching an end. The wheels never stop spinning. Forever going around and around, they caress the tracks with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer on perfect metal, a strike that’s graceful yet will forge a sword worth crying over. The train of time moves with uniformity, as constant as gravity’s eternal reign. The headlights blind, and the whistle roars.
The train of time’s conductor is unknown. The destination—unknown. The reason for its existence—unknown. All that is known about the train of time is that it exists, it moves, and its timetable is without flaw—when it arrives at your station, it is time to face your past, your sins, and your blunders.
A train whooshed into the station, reeling as it braked to a stop. To Hans, there was nothing out of the ordinary about this train. He had seen trains every day for almost five years now. The doors opened, the conductor announcing that they would be taking a short break before departing for the next station, a town that Hans would probably never be able to explore. But assumptions are often dangerous. After all, the train of time had reached its destination.
As his eyes wandered around his little station operating cabin, Hans observed the trinkets he had accumulated on his shelves during his time as the stationmaster of the Brumont train station. He noticed his unopened candle, a gift from his mother from when he was younger. He loved burning candles at home, but this one was too special for him to burn. His eyes glanced at his favorite bonsai tree, which he had raised and trimmed with extreme care. There was nothing as therapeutic as trimming bonsai trees.
Of course, Hans’ gaze couldn’t avoid the massive timetable that hung above his window, which allowed him to keep track of the carefully calculated maneuvers of the trains entering his platform. When he first started, he’d use this table to inform weary travelers when their train would arrive. He’d worked long enough now not to need it.
But what always caught Hans’ eye was his most prized possession, given to him by his grandfather. And it was what the ominous men wearing black suits requested when they came up to the window.
The train that had pulled into the platform was completely normal. And Hans had dealt with various types of train riders before. But this was something he had never experienced in the past. He didn’t have time to examine his favorite trinket because three men in sharp, suave formal wear approached him.
They each wore three-piece suits, well-polished dress shoes, and heavily-darkened sunglasses. Their pitch-black hair was slicked back, completing the classy look. The man leading this refined charge spoke before Hans could welcome them to Brumont.
“I’ll put it simply. I won’t waste your time. We came here for the flowers,” the man said in a loud, demanding voice. People had asked Hans in the past about Brumont’s flower shop. It was well known for its bountiful bouquets of fresh, lovely-smelling flowers and gorgeous paintings hanging from its walls.
Though intimidated by the man, Hans responded, “I’m pleased to help you, sir. The flower shop is right down the road. Head about five blocks down, and you should see it. Please tell Jasmine I said hello. Welcome to Brumont!” Hans tried to speak to these men the same way he would to any customer. But this time, choking through his usual, cheerful greeting took some effort.
“You misunderstand, sir. I want your flowers.”
“I think I do misunderstand. I don’t sell any flowers.”
“We know that you have them,” the man insisted. “I assure you that we will ransack this place until we find the flowers that you possess. We always finish our job, sir.”
And that’s when it hit Hans. Looking back at the decoration that he was trying to admire earlier, he became worried. He had always believed that it was just a decoration. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
“What have you done, grandpa?” Hans had thought nothing of the flowers the men seemed to be after. They were three beautiful heathers his grandfather said he had collected himself. Their dazzling white petals amazed Hans every time he caught a glimpse of them. And catching a whiff of the flower would make a heavenly sensation descend upon anyone’s nose. At first, he was confused as to why his grandfather had given them to him.
When he first received them, he remembered thinking, “Why didn’t he just go to Jasmine’s flower shop? Why go through all the effort?”
Hans quickly learned why. After a couple of days of surviving under his care, Hans thought that the flowers were resilient. After a couple of weeks, he began to consider them creepy. And after a couple of months, he had to admit they were magic.
The head honcho of the men in black followed Hans’ eyes to the heathers, sitting peacefully in their porcelain pot. Not distracted by the other trinkets, he pointed out, “It seems you have what we’re looking for. Hand them over.”
“Why?” Hans questioned immediately. Though the flowers did seem to be special, he couldn’t understand why the men would take a train all the way to Brumont to retrieve them. After all, this was Hans’ precious belonging. He considered the blessing of the heathers staying alive for months on end a lucky charm. There was no reason for him to hand them over to these crooks.
“We don’t want to cause you any trouble. I warned you already what the consequences would be if you tried to block us from completing our job,” the mysterious man reminded Hans.
Another of the men firmly demanded, “Hand it over. We will not ask again.”
“No,” Hans said very simply. As soon as the word left his lips, he realized that he had made the wrong decision. The two men lurking in the back of the civilized formation stepped forward. As one of them reached into the window, too fast for Hans to stop, the other jammed his palm right at Hans’ chin, cleanly knocking him out.
As he floated out of consciousness, Hans saw the first man secure the heathers into a bag the men had brought with them. The man who had knocked Hans out forced open the door to his minuscule stationmaster cabin, picked him up, and walked back out like a hunter lugging a prized bounty from a successful hunt.
The men were swift in completing their mission. Just as quickly as they had obtained their objective, they seamlessly stepped onto the motionless train. Had Hans been in his cabin, a look at his timetable would have informed him the train was ready to depart. This time, he got to experience it live. After all the men entered, the train doors closed, and the train of time was yet again on its way.